A Camelot Knight in King Peter's Court
by King Caspian the Seafarer
Summary: It was a splendid summer day in Narnia when Queen Lucy noticed the five strange knights riding toward Cair Paravel. Chapters include Lucy and Gawain, Susan and Lancelot, Edmund and Kay, and young Corin and Dinadin. And Peter and a certain grumpy wizard...
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: I own neither Narnia nor the Arthurian legend.

**A/N:** Actually, it's more than just one knight in King Peter's Court. But I wanted to make the title parallel to that famous "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court" by the illustrious Samuel Clemens (er...Mark Twain). This is the result of hours and hours on a riding lawnmower with dust getting in your brain, so that the thoughts about King Arthur and crew, and the thoughts concerning Narnia got all jumbled up. Which worked out alright, because, regardless of the dust, I love it when these two particular worlds meet.

Anyhow, please enjoy. I hope, if you have not previously been interested in Arthurian legend, this will give you a reason to learn more about it. The following chapters will include Lucy and Gawain, Susan and Lancelot, Edmund and Kay, and (a bonus!) young Corin and Dinadin. Oh, and Peter and Merlin. :) Enjoy.

* * *

><p><strong>A Camelot Knight in King Peter's Court<strong>

If you'd asked the Pevensies (you know, those mostly quiet English schoolchildren who go to your school, or used to live in your neighborhood) if they'd ever heard of King Arthur or Camelot, you might be surprised. Surprised, I might add, in more ways than just one.

For instance, not only would these children (the eldest boy is hardly thirteen, and he tends to go off in daydreams for hours on end) know exactly of what you spoke (which isn't as much a surprise as the other, for most English schoolchildren know of the most famous of the Kings of England), but suddenly these Pevensie children would be quite indescribably different.

It's hard to explain unless you've seen it (which I have), but their faces light up, all of the faraway looks they have both vanish instantly and then sweep back across their faces during certain parts of the conversation that follows.

But by far, the strangest thing is when they talk about their favorite knights (answering that age-old question) as if they really _know_ the persons involved.

"Gawain," was the youngest's reply, grinning as she twirled a little piece of white-blond hair around her finger thoughtfully. "He's got red hair, you know, and he fought the green knight. And he's got Guingolet and Galatine too."

"Lancelot," was all that Susan would say, although somehow, there was something in the sound of her voice that made you think that it wasn't just because she was going through the phase every schoolgirl goes through of liking Lancelot—and it wasn't because he was tragic and beautiful, either.

"I don't know what all the rot was about Lancelot," Edmund would have said, looking ridiculously gruff and a little sentimental. "Kay was the best—he was the one who stayed home when Arthur was off questing, and he was always loyal. Always."

Peter, however, was the strangest. Because although you'd have thought, from his drawings of knight after knight riding across his essay pages, that he'd have known more about Arthur than his younger siblings. Instead of picking one however, he'd simply shrug and say, "King Arthur himself? I guess." And when told that wasn't one of the possible choices (one was supposed to choose a knight—for who doesn't like Arthur?), he would sigh, rub his head, and say, "I hear Dinadin was a funny chap. But Arthur obviously put up with a lot—getting changed into birds and fish and all."

Yes, the Pevensies were decidedly strange. But, as often is true, there is a story behind every strange thing. And this strange thing is no exception.


	2. Lucy and Gawain

**Chapter 1: Lucy and Gawain**

In the summer, the Narnian wind _caresses_, rather than blows, and everything smells of peaches and honeysuckle.

Lucy leaned against the slender birch tree and sighed a long, contented sigh. Her hair hung, as usual, in a long, tangled mess down her back and across her shoulders. She liked it down, where the wind could twist it round her neck and gust it back from her face. She'd twisted flowers in it today, with Edmund's help—little blue and white star-things that didn't smell much, but reminded her of her crown (except alive and oh-so-sweet looking). The only trouble was that when it was down, her hair tended to catch in the bark of the tree she was leaning against, so that when the day drew to an end, and she was trying to comb the tangles out with the help of her motherly servants, there were little leaves and pieces of bark stuck in the silvery-blond locks.

Giggling mischievously at the image that gave her, Lucy shifted her weight away from the tree and stretched, glancing over at Edmund as she did. Her brother was lying on the grass a few feet away, snoring quietly. Her eyes sparkled as she eyed the little star-flowers she'd twisted into _his_ hair as he slept, and wondered if he would notice at once upon awakening, or if it would take a good deal of strange looks once they got back to the castle before he suspected something.

And then, suddenly, her mood shifted from wickedly pleased and contented to dangerously alert. The two horses, tied to the tree, snorted; their ears twitched forward. Lucy sat bolt upright and listened as the sound of hoof-beats floated across the meadow to where she sat. From the forest about three hundred yards before her, where the hill on which she was sitting atop evened out to make a small valley, five horses appeared.

The queen leapt to her feet, straining her eyes as she sought to recognize the riders and found, to her bewilderment, that she did not. Which, in itself, was odd. She knew all the Narnian nobles (or most of them), and no one ever ventured directly south of the Cair anyway, which was why she and Edmund liked so well to come here. The men on the horses (at least, they all looked like men) were all wearing armor—no, wait. Only three wore armor (a ridiculous way to travel, as it was not only hot, but also reflected for miles, thus giving away your position). Of the other two, one appeared to be wearing a darkish cloak, and the second a gay suit of green and yellow. The former had a long white beard. The latter was riding (she could hardly believe it) crosslegged on his horse, and was playing an instrument and singing.

As they came out of the break in the trees, one of the men in armor (she decided they were likely knights) pointed in the direction of Cair Paravel and said something to the others. They didn't appear to have seen Lucy and Edmund, so she moved as slowly as she could to awaken Edmund. This took a little work, for although she wanted to wake him quietly, waking him at all was not easily accomplished. She finally decided to put a hand over his mouth and punch him in the arm as hard as she could with the other (after trying unsuccessfully to awaken him more gently).

He started awake and jerked away from her, grabbing at her hand frantically, but when she hissed at him to be quiet and he saw that it was her, Edmund relaxed. Then he pushed her hand away.

"What's going on?"

"Strangers," Lucy whispered. "I've never seen them before, but I think they're knights. And one of them's got a gorgeous horse."

Edmund sat up very slowly. Lucy followed his gaze and was relieved to see that the knights still hadn't noticed them. Yet at the same time she was worried, because they were headed toward the Cair.

"What should we do?" she asked.

Her brother's dark eyes were running through the possibilities under his furrowed brow, and at last he sighed.

"I fear I could never fight five, if they mean us harm. And although we've been gentle with our horses this day, we should be hard pressed to outrun them." He paused. "It's odd—why do we not know them? Peter and I have met with every lord and knight from the Lone Islands to the Western Wood."

The knights disappeared into the woods. Lucy stood up and marched over to the horse.

"Let's follow them. Even if they do mean harm (which I don't think they do because they just _look_ friendly), five knights won't get past our defenses."

Edmund nodded and helped her into the saddle. "Back home then. And let's hope they aren't just scouts for a larger army."

"Scouts with a minstrel?" his sister snorted, easing her horse into a trot and adding, over her shoulder, "the sun is getting to you, Ed!"

They reached the edge of the woods in time to see the five knights crossing through the gates and into the castle. After exchanging a look, the two young sovereigns urged their horses into what ended up as a madcap race through the field overlooking the Cair. Seagulls took wing, crying out in surprise as the horses thundered past.

Edmund and Lucy only slowed when they reached the gates themselves. The guards, of course, knew them at once and let them pass. Lucy craned her neck, looking and looking for the five strangers as she swung down from her gelding…and heard deep voices from behind her.

"…were riding down the coastland and found ourselves in unfamiliar woods—which wasn't queer for me, living backwards and everything so that I hardly recognize my own bedchamber. But, by Kraken, tis a funny thing—I was quite certain there were no castles for miles around!"

"No castles," scoffed another voice. "Are you calling this an enchantment, then? A thing of the imagination, or of a sorceress' whim? Looks real enough to me."

"If they have dinner, then we'll know it's real," said a third voice wryly. "I've never heard of enchanted food that didn't taste enchanted."

Heart thumping, Lucy whirled around and saw the five strangers, chatting to each other and a few of the Narnian guards (Fauns, Centaurs, Badgers) who were looking quite out of sorts as to what to do. Three of the men had dismounted, but two were still in the saddle. One of the men with armor, the one standing near the fine, huge black horse she'd seen earlier, caught Lucy's eye at once. Well, really the horse did, but the man was no less impressive—tall and broad-shouldered, but with flaming red hair and pale green eyes that looked slightly amused.

Especially as they flickered over her (she blushed as she realized she'd been staring). But Lucy, of all of her siblings, was not one to be aghast at meeting a stranger's gaze. She measured him curiously, taking in the neat but obviously well used armor, the hand that seemed well accustomed to sitting on the hilt of the sword at his hip. The tawny beard that swallowed up his cheerful face.

"Hullo," she said after a minute. "And welcome to Cair Paravel."

All five of the men turned to look at her (possibly because all the guards had turned and were sort of standing at attention—although she'd told them again and again that she didn't like to have a courtyard full of statues), and she smiled at them genially. The red-haired man was the first to recover, for he bowed, courteously, and returned her smile.

"Thank you, milady. As you might guess, we are strangers to this place—can you tell us whither we have ventured, and which is the way back to Camelot?"

"Camelot!" Edmund was next to her now, gripping her elbow and staring at the knights curiously. "You've ventured far out of your way, I fear. I am Edmund, a King of this land which is called Narnia, and this is my sister, Queen Lucy." He hesitated. "By Camelot, you would be speaking of King Arthur's Court, I presume?"

Another of the knights in armor (this one with graying dark brown hair and a stern face) jerked a nod and said, "Unless there's another Camelot somewhere we haven't heard of."

To the Narnians' surprise, the old man with the long white beard who was wearing the robe leaned over and whacked the dark-haired man on the head with his staff.

"Manners, Kay," he snapped, sounding so like the young queen's grammar tutor that she nearly burst out laughing, and ended up coughing into her hand not very discreetly. The knight rubbed his head and looked annoyed, but did not apologize for his comment.

"Good sirs, Camelot is of another world than this," Edmund was saying. "I know not how you came to be here, but I would be honored to offer you lodging until you are well prepared to take your leave of us. Might I have to honor of knowing your names?"

"Of course," said the red-haired man gravely. "And I beg pardon for not introducing myself and these, my companions, earlier. I am Sir Gawain of Orkney. These, my fellow knights, are Sirs Kay" (this gesturing to the dark haired man), "Lancelot" (the knight who was still wearing his helm, and had not yet spoken), "and Dinadin." (a fair-haired man, slight of build, who Lucy recognized as the one who'd been singing). "And this—"

"I am Merlin," said the man with the long white beard, coolly. "And, young Edmund, I've heard of you. Yes, and your brother and sisters too (I live backwards, you know). In fact, I have some things I should like very much to discuss with High King Peter. If he's to be a proper king—well. He's got a lot to learn, yet, despite the fact that he's been king a few years running."

"Of course," said Edmund, trying and failing to hide his astonishment. "I'm sure my brother would be honored to meet with you. Just now, however, the High King is in the midst of planning for a campaign against the Giants of the North, and I'm not sure—"

He might as well have said nothing for all that Merlin listened. The old man handed his horse's reins to a flabbergasted centaur and turned and began striding toward the Great Hall. Lucy snickered as she watched Edmund follow him helplessly, and Sir Kay, with a sigh, dismounted and went after both of them. Then Lucy looked at the remaining knights and smiled at them again.

"Feel free to stable your horses yourselves, or I can take them for you. I'll have someone come see you to a chamber, if you'd like to rest, or you can go past the kitchen, that way, and try to beg something from Cook—she usually will trade an apple tart for a good story, and I've sure you've got plenty of those."

Sirs Dinadin and Lancelot now dismounted, the former grinning at the mention of an apple tart, and the latter looking faintly disconcerted, for he'd taken off his helm, now, and Lucy could see fully his face. She didn't know much about King Arthur (after all, she'd been eight when they'd first arrived in Narnia, and her memory of her own world and grown dimmer in the eight years she'd been a queen), but she remembered something about Lancelot and someone else's wife. She wondered why the girl had fallen for him, for although he was very handsome in some ways, you could tell by looking at his face that he'd never known what it was like to seek something worth having.

These two knights led their horses away, but Sir Gawain stayed for a moment and watched her. She saw something in his eyes that made her feel, instinctively, that he was a kindred spirit (how Lucy loved kindred spirits!), and so she smiled again at him and said, "Shall I walk with you to the stables, sir?"

He bowed gallantly, and she walked with him. After a few strides, she found her eyes straying again to his beautiful horse. Its black mane and tail fairly shone in the morning's light, and its eyes gleamed at her wickedly, almost as if it was a talking horse. Sir Gawain followed her gaze, but did not speak until she said, "Your horse is lovely. He's very strong, isn't he?"

"Biggest of his kind," said the knight proudly. "An Aughisky—a water horse. His name is Guingalet."

"Guingalet," said Lucy, stopping abruptly and fondling the horse's mane while surreptitiously slipping a lump of sugar under his nose (she always carried lumps of sugar—for who knew when one might come in handy?). "What a lovely name."

Sir Gawain looked rather startled for a minute, and tugged on his horse's rein for fear of something it might do, but Guingalet looked quite pleased to munch the sugar, even though he did eye Lucy with something other than the friendliness she was used to seeing in the eyes of the intelligent Narnian horses.

"May I help rub him down?" Lucy asked, once they'd reached the stables and found a suitable stall for the Aughisky.

Sir Gawain looked uncertain. "He bites, milady. He lets no one near him but me, except for a few cases."

Lucy looked slightly incredulous at this, but, respecting the knight's experience and still watching that mischievous look in the horse's eyes, decided not to try her luck. She stood on the other side of the stall door while the knight tended his horse.

"I can't remember," she said at last, biting on a piece of straw and staring at his red hair intently. When he paused and looked up, she continued. "Are you the one who fought the Green Knight? Or was that some other knight with a name beginning with "G"?"

With a grin, Sir Gawain nodded. "Nay, lass—twas me. That's how I got my title of 'The Maiden's Knight'."

"Because you took the woman's scarf—not because all the girls fall in love with you?" Lucy asked, to clarify. The knight nodded, but with amusement in his eyes.

"Aye. Though I've had one or two who liked me well enough."

"Is that why you grew a beard?" the young queen asked. She liked amusing people as much as she liked being amused, and she knew, somehow, that this red-haired knight was one who would be amused rather than insulted by bluntness.

_Likely he thinks of me as a fresh young thing, _she thought, rolling her eyes internally._ But I don't care. I like him._

"What, lass?" Sir Gawain asked in mock surprise. "You aren't one to find beards attractive in a man?"

Lucy wrinkled her nose. "Susan won't let Peter or Edmund grow theirs out. She thinks it looks unkempt and ungainly, and entirely unheroic. But perhaps," she amended, thoughtfully, "the style is different in Camelot."

"Perhaps," Gawain replied with a laugh.

He finished rubbing down Guingalet, but when he came out of the stall, Lucy walked over to a bale of hay and sat down, patting the hay next to her.

"I know I'm probably not like the queen in Camelot—whatever her name is, Arthur's wife—but I'm the youngest and everyone puts up with me. Please tell me if I'm being forward—I don't mean to, but it's so much nicer to be familiar with interesting people, Sir Gawain."

"Please," said the knight, "You needn't add my title, if you mean to be familiar. Strewth, you remind me of a cousin of mine!"

"Does she look like me?" Lucy asked. "Is she a princess?"

"She is a princess, of sorts," Gawain said, but taking in the tangled fair hair, the pink cheeks, and the slightly worn burgundy dress and thinking of a red-headed girl with pale skin and spotless gowns (when she was wearing gowns, anyway) added, "but she doesn't look quite like you."

"What's the queen of Camelot like?" Lucy asked. "And what's her name? I can't remember."

"Arthur's wife—my aunt, if you will—is called Guinevere. She is tall, with long hair that she often keeps up and out of the way, and if she wears something, all the ladies of the court will be wearing the same style for weeks on end afterward. She is very pretty. The king loves her more than anything else."

And yet there was a hint of sadness in Gawain's voice. Lucy caught it and put two and two together.

"Oh," she said in a small voice. "She's the one Lancelot liked, isn't she? I never liked that part of the story. It's so sad—because Arthur loved them both, but they betrayed him."

Something fleeting, like anger, flashed across Gawain's face, and Lucy remembered belatedly that he had red hair and was therefore liable to have a temper.

"As far as I know, Lancelot has not yet crossed the line of impropriety," the red-haired knight said fiercely. "But if he does, it will break the king's heart."

"Poor Arthur," Lucy said with a sigh. "If he's anything like Peter, then I know he must be a good king, but without three others like us to help him, he'll go mad within a year."

Sir Gawain gave her a very strange look, so she elaborated. "You see, that's why Aslan made all four of us kings and queens—only one of us wouldn't be able to share the burden, and with two, there's room for betrayal. Three means two might conspire against another, but with four, you're safe, because four is even and it covers all the points of a compass so no one gets more than their fair share. Do you see?"

Gawain was smiling, but he nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed, milady, I do. And I'm beginning to see why the Rebellion of the Five Kings didn't work out."

Lucy nodded wisely. "Right. _Five_ kings. You can't split things five ways—not unless you give someone the capital, but that means they're better than everyone else. And anyway, you've got five men trying to figure things out (and not paying any attention to their wives, like as not), things'll probably come out wrong. No, four is fair and even (and Susan and me balance out Peter and Edmund alright). If one of us four were to die or something, the kingdom would collapse. At least, I think it would. Maybe not. Have you got any brothers or sisters?"

Gawain nodded. "Four. You'd like Gaheris and maybe Gareth, but Agravaine and Mordred are…"

"Black sheep?" Lucy suggested tactfully (because Lucy could suggest something that sounded extremely insulting with the utmost tact—it was one of her gifts). Sir Gawain nodded, and she drew her knees up to her chest with a sigh. "I think every family's got one of those—yes, even mine," she added, when the knight gave her an incredulous look. "It was Edmund, a long while back. But it was sort of our fault, because we weren't kind enough to him and he was upset about Father going off to war. But it was his fault too, because he didn't have to…to make things worse. There was a Witch, you see," she said at last, for Lucy was one accustomed to forgiving and forgetting, and she would rather not spread out the black details of the betrayal for just anyone (even a kindred spirit) to see.

"We've got enchantresses of our own back home," Sir Gawain said, seeing that it was a rather delicate subject and so shifting things over toward a new direction. "In fact, my own mother has caused a good deal of trouble."

"That's awful," Lucy told him. "She isn't Morgan Le Fay, is she?"

"No," said Gawain. "Morgan's my aunt. My mother, Queen Morgause, is her sister, and Arthur's their half-brother. That's why he's my uncle, even though we're of the same age."

There was a moment's silence as Lucy processed this. She'd never been so good with genealogies and histories ("It's worse than the War of the Roses!" she would later exclaim, ruefully). After a moment, though, she looked at the knight again and said, "Do you like having four brothers?"

The knight grinned and leaned back against the hay. "Oh, it's not all fun and games, lass, as I'm sure you know, but so long as we're not at each other's throats, we get along. Gaheris is the peacemaker, you see, and Gareth. I've got an awful temper, being of the hot Orkney blood, and so does my brother Agravaine. He tried to kill me once."

Lucy gave him a horrified look. "How awful. How could he do something like that?"

Gawain shrugged, his jade green eyes looking a little melancholy now. "I'm not sure. It's probably something to do with Mother—her being an enchantress and all—and Agravaine and Mordred tend to stick together, and Mordred is bad all the way through. Vaine is just so…so cross and intemperate. He tries and tries to bait me, because he knows I'll fight him when my temper's up."

After thinking about this for a moment, Lucy asked, "Edmund was like that too, a little, because Father was gone—but at least we had our mother. Was your father at home, when your brother was like that?"

The knight looked down grimly and shook his head. "My father was King Lot—one of the Five Kings who rebelled against Arthur. He was always away, fighting in the wars."

Lucy sat up straight as if she'd discovered something brilliant.

"Well, there you have it!" she cried. "He was like Edmund. But I think," she added, slightly scolding him, "that it's a bit of your fault too. You're the eldest—you oughtn't let your temper get the better of you. Peter says that if he'd talked to Edmund more and showed him how much he loved him—despite the trouble between them after Father left—things might've ended up differently.

Gawain nodded at this with a pondering, faraway look, but then grinned at Queen Lucy in the end and stood from the straw.

"You are wise for your years, your highness. And I'd almost gone and forgotten you were a queen!"

Lucy snorted, brushing some hay out of her hair (where it had nested next to the pieces of bark and flowers), and replied, with a smile, "All the better. Conversations with queens are likely to be duller than Susan's dagger—she never sharpens it, you know, because she hates to think she might have to use it."

They left the stables, and it seemed to all who watched them pass that they had known each other always.

* * *

><p><em><strong>To be continued…<strong>_


	3. Susan and Lancelot

**Chapter 2: Susan and Lancelot**

The morning had not passed so easily for certain other members of King Peter's court. Already Queen Susan was a bit out of sorts—and not only because her neatly pinned up hair was coming undone and sticking to her sweaty neck, and the dress she'd put on that morning was really more fitting for a winter day than for the early part of summer.

To top things off she was carrying a basket of Peter's dirty laundry. It was not something she would usually be doing—not on a regular day. It was just that half of Peter's attendants were so busy helping him with the morning's paperwork and business and all the different errands and missions he'd set them on that there wasn't anyone to take his laundry—and Susan, the Lady of the Castle and Overseer of All Its Affairs, was not going to let the king's laundry go undone.

The basket, of course, was heaped with garments. Peter had a tendency to shove the basket behind something so that whoever's errand it usually was to take it generally had to begin a hunt that lasted until someone just asked the high king what he'd done with it. And even then, it wasn't a sure thing that the basket would be found.

Susan's own room was never in such a state. Every morning, after she washed her face and hands, she straightened things up. In most castles belonging to a person of her rank, there were servants to do it. As a matter of fact, there were servants in the Cair who would've been glad to do the straightening. Only Susan and the others had decided, in the first year or so of their reign, that unless their other duties became burdensome, they would somehow convince the cooks and servants and chamberlains that it was alright for kings and queens to help with trivial things, sometimes. Not only did it keep them humble and in touch with their subjects (as well as heightening their subjects' respect for their sovereigns rather than the opposite effect), but it was rather nice to forget about ambassadors and fleets and battle maneuvers for an hour while you helped pick apples in the orchard or dry dishes while chatting to the friendly scullion.

That was part of what made Cair Paravel and the monarchs therein unique. It was also why Susan was carrying a basket of laundry when she turned a corner and bowled into a suit of armor.

Actually, it wasn't just a suit of armor, because its hands shot out to grab both her and the basket in time to save her from falling over. Susan, who had let out a little cry of surprise at the collision, suddenly fell silent as she stared into a pair of dark blue eyes, set under a glossy mess of dark brown curls. She was stunned, not because he was the plainest yet most interesting man she'd ever seen, but because she'd never seen him before—a strange knight in her castle, and here she was, the queen, who'd run into him and was even now balancing a basket of laundry on her hip. Susan flushed and straightened herself up, wishing her hair was not in such a state of disrepair.

"I beg your pardon, sir. I was not watching where I was going."

The man, who was staring at her as if he was seeing a ghost, shook himself a little and then swept her a bow.

"Not at all, milady. I am sorry for startling you."

And then he smiled, cautiously, and she didn't think he looked plain anymore. He bowed, again, and said, "Allow me to introduce myself, milady. My name is Lancelot du Lac, a Knight of the Round Table, and a loyal servant to King Arthur of Logres."

Susan felt something twist inside of her, and she stared at the dark haired man more curiously now than she had before. So this was Lancelot—the man who had destroyed Arthur's kingdom by falling in love with Arthur's wife. She looked into his face, wondering if she would see some trace of arrogance or tragedy—something that might hint of what was to come. She saw nothing. He looked very young.

"It is an honor to meet you, Sir Lancelot," she said, smiling and curtseying ever so slightly (because, of course, she was a queen and he was just a knight, but courtesy was courtesy, no matter what one's station). "I am Queen Susan."

She had briefly considered just introducing herself as Susan (because what kind of queen carries laundry?) but it felt like a lie, and Susan was very conscientious about lying. She was relieved, therefore, when Lancelot looked not a bit surprised, but took her hand and bowed over it to kiss it, gently.

"Your majesty." He straightened, and looked at the laundry basket pointedly. "May I be of service to you?"

Susan considered refusing, but it was so courteously asked that she smiled and handed the basket to him gratefully. "You may—thank you, sir. This way." She began to walk down the corridor, and Lancelot followed. He had such long, confident strides. But then the practical part of her began fidgeting and she turned to him with a question.

"How did you come to be in Narnia, Sir Lancelot? Surely Logres is…well, rather far from here."

Lancelot's face was very serious as he nodded and answered, "This is true, your highness. I can only assume it is Merlin's doing."

"Merlin," exclaimed Susan. "Can he do that? I mean, can he truly send people from one world to another?"

The knight shrugged. He was looking straight ahead. "I suppose he can. There are five of us here, and the wizard is one of them. King Edmund," he added, "met us in the courtyard and offered to let us stay once we had explained to him that we were unfamiliar with this land.

Susan asked where the others were, and Lancelot replied that he didn't know—Edmund and Kay and Merlin were going to see someone called Peter, Queen Lucy had taken Gawain to see to the horses, and Dinadin had wandered off muttering something about apple tarts.

"That knight," Lancelot said, grinning, "is either thinking about his stomach or his songs. Strewth, he would make an excellent minstrel—and knows it too. He does not think himself very knightly."

"It is no shame to do things other than what people think you should do, in accordance with your station," the young queen replied coolly. "For instance, some would say that laundry is something to be left to the servants, and that queens should meddle only in the genteel affairs of court."

She sneaked a glance at Lancelot and saw that he looked a little amused. After a moment, he smiled and said, "Some might say that, but if a queen is not willing to do good honest work every now and again, she is truly not worthy of her title."

"Guinevere does laundry?" Queen Susan asked, as she discovered that the dark haired knight had found nothing scandalous or wrong in meeting a queen who was toting a basket of her brother's dirty clothes.

Grinning still, Lancelot nodded. "Whenever she can. And Arthur would stay in the kennels all day if only Merlin would allow it."

There was a moment in which both of them attempted to retain their dignity and noble bearing, but it passed quickly, and several servants looked up from their work with a glimmer of a smile at the sounds of cheerful laughter.

"In fact," said Lancelot, as they rounded a corner, "that was why I stared so rudely when we first met. Even holding a basket and looking flustered from running into a strange knight, you had not the bearing of a servant. Guinevere is like that. Were she dressed in rags and starving in the streets, one could not mistake her for anything but a queen."

Susan smiled, gently, and wondered if Lancelot had yet discovered that he was in love with Arthur's wife. She hoped he wasn't. She hoped he never would.

"Well, Sir Lancelot. If a queen must be wearing a crown to be recognized, I would say that she's not very much of a queen at all."

He agreed, heartily, and there was silence as they walked. Susan thought of a battlefield strewn with fallen knights, and of a woman with short hair and eyes red with weeping, wearing the garment of a nun. She had to speak of it. She must. There was still a chance that it might not come to pass, if only she could warn him, convince him to leave Guinevere alone.

But she couldn't. And so they walked together in silence—the knight who was doomed to a tragedy of his own design, and a queen who pitied him. And for the first time, Susan found that legends are not always what they seem.

_**To be continued….**_


	4. Edmund and Kay

**A/N: Because Kay is misunderstood. More so than Gawain, even. ;) I mean, Kay isn't really unlikable and grumpy and sarcastic. Well he is. Just not in a bad way.**

**Um. Yeah. Enjoy. ;)  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: Edmund and Kay<strong>

"Bother." Edmund watched the door to Peter's study shut with a worried look on his face, the white beard and red gown of the wizard Merlin still imprinted in his mind. He leaned forward, waiting for the unavoidable order from Peter to leave, because it wasn't audience day and there was far too much to do without having strange bearded men invade one's study.

To his surprise, there was the sound of a chair scraping the floor, and then the noise of muffled conversation. And then an order to leave—but it was the guards and Peter's advisers who came through the door, not Merlin.

"Peridan—what's going on?" Edmund asked, stopping the man, but directing his question to the Tiger, Faun, and Fox as well. Peridan shrugged.

"You know better than I, Sire. Who is that man? He speaks with such authority!"

He was talking, of course, about the wizard. Edmund still wasn't sure how they'd ended up at the door of Peter's study—Merlin seemed to know where he was headed pretty well, unless Edmund had given everything away without meaning to. He sighed, but it was the older knight beside him who answered Peridan's question.

"Authority! More like misplaced arrogance. As mentors go he wasn't too bad, but he's not exactly the most awe-inspiring of wizards."

"Wizards?" Lord Peridan said, and the heads of the Beasts jerked round to stare at Sir Kay ominously. "What is he doing in the castle? He hasn't…"

"It's…it's alright, Peridan," Edmund said, realizing that even though his mind was still spinning, he had to do something before Peter's guards rushed back into the study and attempted to assassinate the old man. "Merlin is from…Spare Oom. He serves a good king, but in that land, magic is…treated differently."

There was a moment of silence as Peridan wondered how there could be a kingdom in which magic and wizards were good, and Kay wondered what on earth was a Spare Oom. After a moment, Edmund cleared his throat.

"Well, there's no point in all of us waiting here. There's a Galmian ambassador who had some questions concerning the tax on trade. Would you look in on him for me?"

Peridan nodded, looking relieved that he wasn't the one who would have to be around when a wizard was consulting the High King, and looking worried because he wasn't sure that was a good thing. After all, the kings were still just boys.

Well. Highly intelligent, responsible, battle-ready boys (who were really pretty much practically men, at their ages) who had been personally chosen by Aslan for the job of ruling Narnia. He shrugged. As long as the wizard wasn't planning to stay at Cair for too long, it was probably alright.

Edmund watched as Peridan and the Fox (his aide) headed down the hall. The Tiger and Faun lingered, and after a moment, Edmund gave them both a nod. After all, they were guards. If for some reason their visitors turned out to have less than honorable intentions, it might be good to have a couple hands (and paws) on his side. He glanced at the man who called himself Sir Kay and noticed the way the man was staring at the Tiger and Faun—well, mostly at the Faun. Edmund reflected on how he'd felt upon first seeing a Faun and grinned a little, feeling it was his duty to explain.

"Many of the creatures of Narnia only exist in legend back where you come from. Fauns, centaurs, griffins…"

Sir Kay gave him an incredulous look. Edmund nodded understandingly. "The animals talk, too. At least, some of them."

"Ah." Sir Kay glanced over at a bench and Edmund caught the meaning in the look at once (he was, after all, the King of Subtleties).

"I would be honored if you would join me in waiting for my brother and…erm…Merlin. Please, won't you sit?"

"After you, sire," Sir Kay replied courteously. Edmund complied and then proceeded to tell him a little about Narnia, its rulers, and its inhabitants. A little, anyway. If Susan or Lucy were here, or even Peter, surely they would know what exactly to say. But somehow, Edmund was having trouble with coming up with the words. He disliked it when people prattled on meaninglessly, and had a feeling by the look in the tall knight's eyes that he felt quite the same about it. So eventually Edmund's words trailed off, and Sir Kay shifted his weight, looking as though he was about to speak, but wasn't exactly sure what to say.

The silence was a little deafening. It wasn't exactly an oppressive silence; just one that contained many unasked questions, with a little bit of bemusement to go along with it, topped off with anxiety. The young king braced himself, took a deep breath, and spoke.

"I suppose you're wondering why there are two kings and two queens of Narnia and how youths such as we were chosen to rule this kingdom."

"Not at all. Actually," Sir Kay said thoughtfully, a wry smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "I was wondering why you had flowers in your hair."

Edmund put a hand to his hair, eyes widening in bewilderment, but when he had some of the little blue and white flowers in his hand, he flushed with embarrassment, wondering why on earth someone hadn't said something before and what had put the idea into Lucy's head.

"She's the youngest, eh? The little queen in the courtyard?"

Edmund nodded. "Aye, sir. Peter's the eldest, as you know, and then there's Susan, then me."

Kay harrumphed and stretched his leg out gently, as though there was some hurt in it that made him do it carefully. "So—the High King's brother. I suppose you're the one who has to deal with all the audiences and paperwork and complaining peasants?"

With a snort, Edmund shook his head. "Not on your life! If Peter dared leave it all to me, I'd put salt in his tea and oil the hilt of his sword. Um," he cleared his throat, knowing that Susan would be scolding him for that, and amended, "only figuratively, of course."

Now it was Sir Kay who snorted, and Edmund struggled to recall what exactly he could about the Kay of King Arthur's court.

"I remember hearing about you, but I can't recall…wasn't there something about you and King Arthur during the king's childhood? And a tournament?" He shifted his weight uncomfortably at the man's sudden grim look, and took another breath. "Forgive my memory—it's been ages since I heard the story properly, and I'm afraid I was very young at the time."

For a moment, Edmund thought the knight was not going to answer him. But then Sir Kay breathed out a long sigh and leaned back against the wall.

"Arthur was my foster brother—my father, Sir Ector, raised him as a second son. We didn't know he was the heir to the throne until…until the Great Tournament at Camelot."

Edmund nodded quietly. He'd remembered something about a tournament. An important tournament. But now Kay had fallen silent, as if reflecting on whatever it was that had happened, so the young king cleared his throat.

"There was something about Merlin too, wasn't there? And a sword?"

"I suppose you will want the whole story," Kay grumbled. Edmund began to stammer an apology (not wanting to have upset a guest) but the knight waved it off and continued, gruffly. "Yes, Merlin was there. He'd done something years before to stop quarrelling between different lords about who was to be king when Uther Pendragon died without an heir. In the churchyard at Camelot, a stone appeared with a sword sticking out of it, and an inscription reading, 'He who pulleth out this sword from this stone is the rightful king of Logres', or some other such rubbish. Wart—I mean, Arthur—was my squire when our party came to Camelot for the tourney. He was so scatterbrained—left my sword at the inn on the morning of the First Day."

The Faun standing beside Peter's door was trying to look uninterested, but Sir Kay must've noticed that he was leaning slightly toward the king and knight, and raised his voice a little, considerately. The Tiger appeared not to care, but Tigers were always like that.

"I told him to go fetch it, of course. And then I paced for a good half hour, hoping that the—that he would make it back in time. And what should he do but burst into my tent at the last minute, carrying a sword that was probably worth half of Father's lands—a sword that was most definitely not mine. I recognized it, having tried with all the other young bucks to dislodge it from the stone the day or so before. One look at his glowing face told me exactly what had happened—how he'd happened across it and drawn the thing from the stone, and yet here he was, only jubilant because he'd managed to fulfill my request in time."

The knight stopped. There was a hard look in his eyes, and Edmund, who had by now remembered the rest of the story, had a sinking. He shouldn't have brought it up. He opened his mouth to change the subject, but Kay held up a hand and said, miserably, "No. Let me finish. I chose what happened next—chose it knowing that it was wrong. Would it be wrong to say that I convinced myself that I had a right to the sword because my brother was offering it freely—giving the Throne of Logres to me? Would it be wrong to pretend that I did not see the wrong in it?" His eyes turned downward, too heavy with grief to remain on Edmund's face. "But no. I knew, when I chose, that it was wrong. How could I have known that I was choosing deception for my legacy?"

"No…" Edmund began, but the knight snapped his eyes back up to meet the king's.

"Yes. I took the sword to my father. I told him I drew it, and then when we returned to the stone and Arthur was the only one who could bring the sword forth, as I knelt on the snowy cobblestones and looked up at the hapless boy who had been my brother and was now the Prophesied King of Logres, I felt in full the depth of my foolishness and pride. My betrayal of his trust."

The gaze of Sir Kay pierced Edmund like the searing pain of an arrow. He swallowed and smiled, bitterly.

"That's nothing. At least you didn't try to murder your brother."

The hard look faded a little from the knight's eyes, replaced by bewilderment, and then disbelief. Edmund nodded slowly, and then looked down at his hands.

"I betrayed Peter—and the girls—by helping the Witch-queen of this country track them down so that I could be the king. They got away, but it was only when the witch turned on me that I realized my mistake." He didn't trust himself to look up. He was afraid of what he would see in the man's face. "She had a right to my blood, because I was a traitor. Aslan—the Lion who watches over us and all of Narnia—freed me and died in my place. He came back to life—killed the witch—made us kings and queens. But that still doesn't erase what I've done."

The weight of a hand bowed his shoulder. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Edmund lifted his eyes and met the gaze of Sir Kay—a gaze that was not scornful or disgusted or dismayed. It was understanding.

"You did not have to share this with me," the knight said softly. His voice was rough with emotion.

Edmund sighed and ran a hand through his hair (sending a few more flowers floating to the floor). "Nor were you under any obligation to share your story with me." He smiled, slightly. "That wasn't your legacy, though."

A furrow appeared between Kay's brow. "Whenever the story is told of how Arthur became king of all Logres, my part will be the blot—the stain—the part of the villain. This is something I cannot change."

"No," said Edmund quietly, "but the story is not yet ended." He fiddled with the lining of his jacket. "In the place where I come from, Sir Kay was the name of a man who was fierce and grim and often downright dislikable. But faithful." This time he put his own hand on the other's shoulder. "Kay was Arthur's most faithful knight."

The tall man drew in a quick breath and then let it out slowly. Then he lifted his eyes again and smiled, wryly. "Ah, lad. You've got it easy. At least it's your older brother who is stationed over you. Wart was my younger brother."

Edmund snorted. "Not that it makes things any easier. Peter is wiser than me, though. In some ways. I shouldn't want to be the High King."

Kay nodded grimly. "Nor I, lad. Nor I." He shifted his weight and rubbed at his leg again. "Tis the duty of the brother—to be loyal and trustworthy in all things. Although," he added quietly, "if I had been in Arthur's place, I don't know if I would've trusted me again."

Thinking of the bewildered expression on Peter's face on the occasion of his younger brother's most recent apology for the betrayal, Edmund smiled.

There was a shout from behind the door of Peter's study, and the subject was dropped as the Faun and the two humans were suddenly very interested in listening to whatever might be happening inside those doors. Only the Tiger remained unmindful of the room behind him.

But that was nothing new.

* * *

><p><em><strong>To be continued…<strong>_


	5. Corin and Dinadin

**A/N: Hurray! An update! And it's actually the funnest chapter in this yet (because Corin+Dinadin=awesomesauce). I heartily apologize for the long wait for this (and would be little surprised if no one reviewed). Hopefully there is only one chapter left, and it should be posted soon, so I can wrap this one up. :)**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: Corin and Dinadin<strong>

It was astonishing, the cook often remarked to her nephew, Geoffrey, how everyone seemed to know when she was baking Apple Tarts.

Each of the kings and queens had some (Lucy and Edmund had come by earlier, explaining that they were going picnicking), Susan had sent Renna the Badger to fetch some for tea with the Galmian ambassador (though she'd probably only eaten half of one, dear distracted thing), and a few of the High King's guards had come around for some, although Cook was almost certain they hadn't been fetching them for the king.

They were, she had to admit, worth coming around for. The apples had been picked yesterday, and were the sweet, juicy ones that grew on the trees just inside the courtyard's gates. Those were the old apple trees, which had somehow survived the Hundred Year Winter. Some said they were all that remained of an even Older Tree, which the witch had cut down and burned. But that was probably just a legend. The rest of the tart was Cook's pride and joy—a recipe tested and tasted by dozens of children and friends through the years until at last she discovered the perfect blend of honey, flour, and cinnamon. The flaky crusts would melt in your mouth; the apples were cooked to a wonderful softness and then coated with cinnamon and lemon-juice. No wonder she was swatting hands right and left and growling because another pan of the fresh tarts had just gone missing.

Suddenly, Cook straightened from the dough she had been kneading and turned toward the doorway, for a new sound had caught her ear. A string of melodious notes, like a Siren's call, jerked her gaze around as effectively as if it had been a fishing line, and she a caught fish.

A nice looking young man was standing in the doorway. He was of medium height, with light brown hair and a wry smile. His hands strummed his instrument ("A lute?" wondered Cook), and when he saw that she (and everyone else in the kitchen) was looking at him, he grinned and bowed smoothly.

"Good day, fair Queen of the Kitchen and to you, her courtiers. The aroma of your handiwork has frozen my feet in their places. Would you be willing to exchange a boon to a hungry minstrel in exchange for the only thing he has to offer?"

"Wha's that?" the scullion chirruped, cheeky as ever. "Yer tongue?"

Everyone paused, worried that the stranger was offended. However, before a second's time had passed, the man let out a roar of laughter, grinning widely at the boy. Everyone else began tittering, too, and someone (probably Ellie, one of the girls who turned the roast) whacked the cheeky scullion over the head with her ladle. She had the makings of a fine cook, Cook thought appraisingly.

"Give us a song," Cook said. "Seems to me like that's what you're meaning to offer us."

"Beautiful _and_ clever," the man said, bowing to her again. "Very well, a song it is. Ballad or ditty?"

"Ballad," said Cook, who was romantically inclined, but everyone else called for ditty, so the man shrugged and began to play. It was a delightful, toe-tapping sort of song, and several girls were so distracted that the smell of things becoming slightly scorched made them gasp and whirl around to see to their dishes. The song the minstrel sang was about a shy man who wanted to buy a mare from his neighbor, but who somehow ended up marrying the neighbor's daughter Mary due to a mischievous friend who offered to be a go-between. Cook was so enamored by the entertainment that she almost didn't see the slight shadow of movement from behind her—almost, but not quite. She whirled around (just as the minstrel was drawing to a close) and smacked the hand of the young boy who was reaching for one of her fresh apple tarts.

"Naught for thee!" she bellowed, so sharply that the minstrel stopped his song altogether. "I'll teach thee to steal from my kitchen, behind my back!"

She reached for her ladle (for she didn't mind so long as people asked before they took, and Cook was a great believer in boys and girls being taught early on in life that stealing and such was wrong), but the minstrel stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder before she could smack the lad with it.

"Madam, I ask my boon of thee. The boy and I had a wager—he thought that my song would distract you from seeing him, and I thought that it would not. It was wrong of us to trick you so, but I prithee, do not harm him too much."

The sparkle had left the man's eyes, and he was all earnest contrition. The cook paused, bewildered by this sudden admission, and then threw up her hands in surrender.

"Very well, sir. You can 'ave 'im. I don't know how the prince talked you into such a scrape, but I've no doubt it was just to have a taste of his favorite food. Twill spoil your appetite, highness," this to the boy, who was shaking his very blond hair out of his eyes and watching the minstrel and Cook with wide, relieved blue eyes. "And if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, ask before you take!"

The boy mumbled an apology and darted toward the door. The minstrel looked down at the apple tarts and glanced at Cook, who suddenly smiled widely at him. "Go ahead, lad. You've more than earned it. What's your name?"

"Dinadin," the man replied, bowing again. "I'm from a place called Camelot, and I assure you, madam, that the cook there is not half so forgiving nor beautiful as you."

Cook blushed and smiled and told him to go on, so the minstrel took two apple tarts and bowed before he left.

.

When Dinadin went through the door into the alcove of a courtyard, he saw a flash of ash-blond hair out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head and, hiding a grin, saw that it was the boy from inside.

"Oh, hello," he said, nodding to the lad. "Take to heart what she tells you and perhaps you won't get smacked again."

Hesitating as he considered what he was going to do (he was, after all, holding two apple tarts), Dinadin glanced at the boy and thought, _Well. He's at the age where you're hungry all the time. Just one won't spoil his appetite._

The boy certainly didn't protest when the knight-minstrel handed him one of the warm tarts. However, he did give Dinadin a curious glance as the minstrel settled onto a stone bench that ran along the wall of the alcove, slinging his instrument into his lap and lifting his tart to his lips. Dinadin noticed the stare and gave the boy another look, this one more careful than the first. How old was he? Six? Seven? What had the cook called him? Highness?

"Well?" Dinadin said at last, growing a little uncomfortable beneath that fascinated blue gaze. "Cat got your tongue?"

The boy wrinkled his nose, and then pointed at the instrument. "What's that?"

"Tis a lute."

"Not like the Narnian lutes, it isn't."

"That's because it's an Albion lute."

There was a moment of silence. Then the boy asked, "You lied to Cook about us having a wager."

Raising an eyebrow, Dinadin nodded. "Unless I am very wrong, most hungry young men such as yourself would be grateful after being saved from a beating just for trying to fill their growling stomachs."

The boy just gazed at him thoughtfully, until Dinadin grew uncomfortable again and said, "Come. Sit and eat your tart."

He could hear the boy's stomach growl as he moved to sit next to the minstrel, but he looked a little guiltily at the pastry. "I shouldn't."

"If you don't," Dinadin remarked, licking his fingers, "than I shall."

After hesitating for a split-second, the boy broke into a large grin and obediently devoured the apple tart. As he did, he talked (the silent shyness of a few seconds ago had apparently been temporary).

"Where is Albion? Do you have a king? Where did you learn that song and why did you call Cook a queen and why did you give me one of your apple tarts?"

"Far away from here, yes, another minstrel, to butter her up, and because I used to be a hungry boy too." Dinadin hid a grin at the surprised look on the boy's face. Perhaps he was not used to having all his questions answered. "And before you ask, my name is Dinadin. What is your name? Why did the cook call you 'highness'? Are you from here? Do you have a king?"

A little sheepishly, the boy ducked his head. "I'm sorry. Edmund says I ask too many questions."

Dinadin plucked one of his strings to tune it and said, "My master said the same thing about me. Are you going to answer?"

"I was working it all out," said the boy. "Corin, because I'm a prince, no but I am from Archenland which is a few days journey south, and my father is the king of there but Narnia has two kings and we're neighbors and Edmund said he would be my older brother."

Laughing in spite of himself (for he knew young ones did not like being made fun of) Dinadin strummed a chord slowly. "What? You don't have an older brother of your own?"

Corin looked down so that his hair fell in his eyes. "No. I used to pretend I did, because I've always wanted one so badly, someone to play tricks with (or on), but I haven't got one. Except for Edmund," he added. "He's one of the kings, and he always lets me have apple tarts before supper."

"Well," said Dinadin, slouching a bit and playing a minor chord. "You aren't missing much. I haven't had much luck with older brothers."

"Have you got one?"

"Mm. But he's an idiot, and a famous one—but most people think he's brave instead of stupid. He fell in love with our uncle's…er, he made a lot of bad choices. And he doesn't even know who I am half the time."

Corin looked skeptical, but after Dinadin regaled him of the story of the time that Tristram had taken a vow of silence (which he then proceeded to brag about to everyone from Camelot to Orkney), and of the way he had sneaked into his enemy's castle under the highly imaginative and inconspicuous name "Tramtris". The story got Corin to laugh, at least, but he still looked unconvinced.

"Edmund's not like that—nor is Peter (that's Edmund's brother). Perhaps you've just had bad luck. I know," he added thoughtfully, "that if I had a real brother, I shouldn't mind even if he was an idiot."

"You'd be surprised," muttered Dinadin, but then he shrugged off his foul thoughts and began plucking a lively song. After about a minute of that, Corin jumped up and tugged at Dinadin's sleeve.

"Come on! I've got something to show you." At Dinadin's raised eyebrow, the boy explained, "There's a wizard visiting the High King (that's Peter, Edmund's brother) and no one can get into the throne room when it's locked. But I know a way to see what's going on."

"Well?" said Corin, wiping his mouth with his sleeve (_There goes a perfectly good tunic, stained with apple tart_). "Are you game?"

Even though the knight side of him (the darned responsible side) insisted that spying on the affairs of kings and wizards was likely not the wisest way of spending one's afternoon (you know what they say about meddling in the affairs of wizards…), Dinadin's minstrel side was much stronger. Thus it was that Dinadin, who still had a good deal of 'child' left in him, grinned a smile that matched that of the mischievous blond boy and nodded a 'yes', quite ready for whatever adventure awaited them in the throne room of the High King.

He was not, however, ready for the scene that awaited them. Corin led him through a back-stair and into a sort of upper gallery (good place for an assassin to hide, Dinadin thought worriedly) and as they made their way to a place where they could look down into the throne room, the sound of Merlin's scratchy voice could be heard, raised and irritated and lecturing, like as not. Then a younger voice interrupted him, and then Merlin started shouting. Dinadin wasn't paying attention, minding more the chairs and tables he and Corin were wading through to get to whatever hole in the wall they were to see through (apparently the place was being used to store all the unwanted furniture in the castle and the neighboring provinces, too).

Dinadin did, however, notice when there was the sound of a small explosion in the room below, and the voice of the younger person suddenly just stopped, and all that was left was Merlin's lecturing.

As well as a high, squeaky sound that hadn't been there before. They reached the hole through which Corin said they could look, and when he looked through into the beautiful but mostly simplistically decorated throne room, Dinadin focused on the pair beneath and after a moment let out a groan and leaned back against the wall, allowing Corin to look through.

"Oh, Merlin," Dinadin muttered. "What have you done?"

"I don't see the king," Corin said, squinting into the room. "There's only that old fellow. Where's Peter got to?"

"He's there," said Dinadin, rubbing his forehead and wondering how on earth he was going to explain all this to the other king and queens without ending up with Merlin's head on a platter (because like it or not, Arthur still needed him). "Sitting on the desk."

"There's no one there."

"Yes there is. Yellow. Squeaking. A good deal smaller than he usually is, I think."

"But…" Corin, Dinadin thought, was finally at a loss for what to say. "He's…he's a…"

"Yes," said Dinadin, hitting his head repeatedly on the wall behind him. "I should have expected this, after hearing Arthur's stories about his childhood. Merlin's turned him into a canary."

* * *

><p><strong><em>To Be Continued...<em>**


	6. Peter and Merlin

**Chapter 5: Peter and Merlin**

It had been an altogetherly* exhausting and confusing day for High King Peter. He had awakened an hour earlier than usual in order to start reviewing his notes before meeting with his advisors to discuss the campaign against the Giants of the North (who were threatening war in a most clumsy, blunt, and troublesome fashion. After failing to catch the king of Narnia's attention by sending threatening letters which were not legible and even if they had been were like as not written in Giantish, the giants had been raiding villages near Ettinsmoor, although curiously enough they left most the people and Beasts alive, choosing only to smash a good many cottages, burrows, and chicken-houses).

He'd still been going over notes and calculating logistics when his siblings paraded down to the breakfast table at ten till eight, all fresh-faced and well rested. It is perhaps not entirely a surprise that he was cross as a Bear woken in December with them, until Susan exclaimed over how hard working he was and how lazy they all were and ended up mollifying the high king while somehow managing to force him to set aside his paperwork long enough to eat five pieces of toast, six scrambled eggs, and two sausages.

For the most part, it was agreed, King Peter managed his frustrating and exhausting work with a remarkably good temper. True, Edmund always had a coughing fit whenever the advisors were discussing it (in the high king's absence of course, but the badgers would bring it up and the centaurs always chimed in too), but really, for the amount of work he accomplished (most of which was far beyond the ordinary scope of a young man his age) Peter was constantly in brilliantly good moods.

But today, it was rather not the case. He had not snapped once at the advisors (even though Hootwing the Owl _would_ ask questions every five seconds) and though his jaw was rather aching from clenching his teeth during Greengob the Marshwiggle's long, dry, and hopelessly depressing speech, Peter stood firm about not complaining or losing his temper.

At least, until the wizard came.

He'd been sitting at the conference table going over distances and numbers while occasionally leafing through books on military campaigning and old Narnian and Archenlandish battle records and making comments to Peridan and the others when the door slammed open. Peridan rose to deal with whoever it was, so Peter continued reading. He was wondering vaguely if it was Hootwing, back with more questions, or an intruder, when he heard the strange voice.

"Unhand me, you great lout. _I am_ an ambassador—from Camelot (and if you don't know where that is, you should go back and study your geography). I've been hearing all about High King Peter and I've come with advice and…well, it's none of your business. Out! Out! All of you!"

Letting out a very long sigh, Peter rubbed his forehead, closed his book, and pushed his chair back. He knew that Peridan and the faun (an old friend of Tumnus' who'd been in Archenland helping King Lune during the Long Winter) were probably readying to draw their swords, or at the very least grabbing the visitor and starting to drag him away, but he needed a rest from logistics anyway.

"It's alright, Peridan. I'll see him."

He turned, just in time to see Peridan let go of the man's arm and begin hovering warily by his shoulder. The man was rather short and roundish. His most distinguishable feature was a very long white beard which had things stuck in it (or perhaps just things not brushed out of it) like twigs and leaves. He wore a red robe and a crooked pointed hat, and his eyes, which gleamed at Peter shrewdly from under large bushy white eyebrows, were like little diamonds: hard and shining.

"What can I do for you, sir?" It was asked in his most polite, grown-up voice (he'd had plenty of time to perfect it, too). However, instead of simply answering, the old man looked surprised and let out a little cackle.

"Good, good, some manners at least. But it's more a matter of what I can do for you." He tugged at his beard and squinted at the high king, then noticed that the other people (and various creatures) in the room were all watching the display. "Go on—out, all of you! You're not needed just now."

This was against all tradition, for strange guests to burst unannounced into the council chamber and start ordering everybody about. Peridan had a frown on his face, and Peter was inclined to agree that this was most unorthodox and not a good idea—especially since they were in the middle of planning a war.

"I am sorry, sir, but I don't think you—,"

"OUT!" shouted the old man. Then, glaring around, "Or I'll turn them all into frogs."

Seeing as one of them was already a frog (he was the Marshwiggle's personal assistant…), Peter almost balked, but there was a glint of something like mischief but more serious that lurked about the old man's eyes. It was clear that he was some sort of wizard, in which case he should not even be inside the palace, much less alone with the king in the council chamber. The faun had drawn his sword, now, not terribly thrilled about being turned into a frog, it seemed, but then something the old wizard had said found its way to the tip of Peter's mind.

"By Jove," he muttered, then louder, "I beg your pardon, sir, but where did you say you were from?"

"Camelot," the wizard repeated. "Camelot, you dunce! Don't they teach history in schools these days?"

It was Merlin, then. Few English schoolchildren grow up without having down some of the rudimentary basics of the mythology and legends of their own country. If it was Merlin, then he probably wasn't an enemy of Narnia. And that last bit had sounded a bit too much like an old professor Peter had once known (at least, he thought he'd known—perhaps it was from a dream) to belong to a threatening personage. After a momentary internal debate, Peter shrugged and said, "Very well. Go on, Peridan, Menelaus, everybody, and I will entertain our guest alone for the moment."

"Sire," Peridan began, but shut up when Peter shook his head. He and the other advisors and various courtiers left the room as quickly as they could.

"Now," said Peter. "Am I right in guessing that you are Merlin, chief wizard and advisor to King Arthur?"

"Of course I'm Merlin," the wizard replied, rolling his eyes. "Really, young Pevensie, you are a bit slow on the uptake. Not altogether unlike another young student I had, though, so don't worry—there is hope. Now. I'm here to ground you in the fundamentals of nature and make sure you have all the knowledge necessary to keep from having your country revolt in the next five years."

"Ah." Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, I've been king for about five years already. Everything seems to be going alright."

"Yes, _seems_," said Merlin. "_Seems_. But how to know? I know about your family—how you were dropped here in Narnia at ridiculously young ages (younger even than Wart was when he was crowned) and expected to just pick up a scepter and rule. At least they made your crowns to size."

"Sir, it isn't that I do not appreciate your…intent. I do not claim to know everything a king needs to know, but I doubt that anything you could do would allow me to learn in such a way that Aslan would approve of." Peter felt a bit awkward saying it, but it had to be said. "Magic, sir, is rather…frowned upon, here. There was a witch who enchanted everything for a hundred years, you see, and our people are still a little wary. My experience thus far has been that learning by trial and error and advice is better than any tricks or spells."

Merlin laughed. It was a little surprising, because Peter had been expecting a more furious reaction.

"You have Talking Beasts here, young Peter. I would wager that no trial, error, or advice could ever hope to teach you how they feel or what they think in the same way that becoming one would. Do you agree?"

"Well…" Peter chewed on his lip as he thought. It seemed the rhetoric and debate lessons were finally coming in handy. "Even if I don't know how it feels to be a Talking Beast, I can still respect and listen to them. I don't see how becoming a beast would increase the respect and courtesy I extend to them."

"Ah, but that's just the beginning of it!" Merlin set a carpetbag on the table and began riffling through it, yanking out a book here, a stool there (he sat, ignoring the rules of protocol, not that Peter really minded anyway), and a pair of half-moon spectacles. "You see, becoming a fish or bird has to potential to teach you fundamental lessons about the basic nature of humanity. It's a theory I've been working on for a few millennia, now, and it has proved informative every time. Now. With Wart we started with fish. I don't seem to recall seeing a moat around here…have you got one?"

"No," said Peter, a little regretfully. They didn't really need one, but he'd always thought they were a grand idea.

"Hmm, pity." The old man squinted upward, looking around the big room. "Squirrels are usually next, but the size of this room and the safety it presents against hawks and such (for the first bit) bids me name birds as the first lesson. So." He fixed his shining eyes on Peter. "What bird would you like to become?"

For those readers who are unfamiliar with Merlin's other student (a young boy named Wart who one day became King Arthur), that particular young boy decided to become a Merlin. It might have been in flattery of the wizard in order to get on his good side, but a Merlin, being a sort of falcon, was a logical choice for young Wart, and not a bad bird to be. However, the flattery made Merlin come to believe that Merlins were actually the best birds. This fact is inconsequential at this instant, but it will become extremely significant in a moment.

As the old wizard studied him closely, the high king rubbed the back of his neck (it was a gesture he often performed when feeling a bit out of his depth). He did not want to be turned into a bird. He had a war to plan and a kingdom to run and three younger siblings to take care of. He finally found himself saying, "Please, I'd rather not. There are these giants, you see, up north, and I've got to plan…"

"What bird?" Merlin snapped. "I know you'd rather not. You're that sort of boy—unimaginative and overly responsible. But if you could choose—any bird, and I'm not saying I'll do it—what would it be?"

It was cruel and not entirely truthful of Merlin to say that Peter was unimaginative (though he was overly responsible—not a bad thing), but he was in a rush because Arthur might need him back in Camelot. And Peter was rather in a rush to get rid of the old wizard, hoping that if he just named a bird and then showed Merlin out before he could actually perform any kind of spell (because surely it would be in one of those dusty old books he'd just unpacked from the carpet bag) he could get back to work without any more disturbances.

"An owl," Peter said sharply. "A parrot. I don't care—do colorful birds take longer?"

The fact that he had not chosen a Merlin gave the old wizard a bit of a temper. The fact that he had chosen an owl first made it a bit more of a temper (for Merlin had an owl back home who was constantly raving about how much better he was than other birds—for it was a talking owl—and now it seemed that someone had chosen an owl above a Merlin which meant his own owl might be right). And the fact that he thought colorful birds would take Merlin longer than ordinary birds was an outright slight against the wizard's skills (albeit unintentional).

Merlin pointed his wand at Peter and said, "Colorful, is it? Alright—so be it!"

And then he said a spell and something exploded around Peter, and then he was a good deal smaller, and had feathers. Yellow feathers.

Oh, yes. An altogetherly** exhausting and confusing day for High King Peter to be sure.

**0o0o0o0o0o**

It wasn't until Corin burst breathlessly into the hallway with his face red and hair flying and looking like he'd seen a ghost that Edmund began to wonder if something had gone wrong. Edmund jumped to his feet and caught Corin, who had tripped over the carpet and had been about to go sprawling across the floor. The prince gave him a startled look and said something like, "ED! He's a canary! The wizard's balmy, and you've got to get him out of there!" except that it was all jumbled and run together and told in breathless spurts.

"Stop," said Edmund. He set Corin back on his feet and said, "Say it again, but slower."

Corin held up a finger. "Can't…breathe…"

A young brown-haired man came stumbling through the same doorway. He looked a little relieved when he saw Corin, and a little more relieved when he saw Sir Kay beginning to rise from the bench.

"Oh, good. Has he told you about Merlin?"

"About Merlin?"

"He hasn't?" The young man smacked his hand to his face and moaned. "I didn't want to be the one…"

"He's turned Peter into…into…" Corin was making a valiant effort to speak his message.

He didn't need to finish his sentence, for Kay was already cursing (knowing by experience what had happened, for Arthur hadn't been the only one the old wizard had tutored) and Edmund was lunging toward the door, half drawing his sword, because if the high king was in danger…

There was a mumble from inside, and the door lock jammed. Edmund jerked at the knobs with all his might, beginning to get a little frantic (it happened, when Peter was in danger). Then Kay came up behind him. Suspiciously, Edmund drew his sword the rest of the way. Supposing this had been the intent—for the knights to get Merlin inside the king's chamber, to change him into something permanently or, even worse kill him? He'd assumed, since they were from Camelot, they were on his side, but now things were beginning to look differently.

"Guards, to me," he said, his voice ringing in the echoing corridor. "I warn you, sirs, not to try anything. You are far outnumbered."

But Sir Kay was shaking his head, not even stopping to look round and take in the faun draw his weapon, and the Tiger move to a defensive position on Edmund's right. He struck Edmund as the sort of person who didn't mind leaping into a fight, so it was strange (if he was truly trying to help kidnap Peter) that he had not drawn his sword.

"If this was Merlin's plan, it was not in my knowing. He will not harm your brother, I can assure you. I think he is trying to help the young king—as he helped my brother, Arthur. By turning him into…well, creatures. To broaden his mind."

"Then why has he _locked the door_?" Edmund growled the words through clenched teeth.

Sir Kay set out a sigh and shrugged. He held his hands out in front of him, well away from his sword. "Let me talk to him. Not that he listens to me, but as Arthur's seneschal, I've got at least a little sway."

Still scowling, Edmund hesitated and then jerked his head toward the door. He did not lower his sword, though, and said to Corin, who was watching all of this with very wide blue eyes, "Go get Peridan, and any guards you can find. NOW!"

He looked at the brown-haired man, wondering if he would be any sort of threat, but the man's eyes flickered up to meet his own mildly, and he shrugged. "My name is Dinadin, your majesty. You've probably heard how clever I am with my sword. So clever that I don't even carry it with me."

It was true. He only had a lute.

Sir Kay approached the door carefully and knocked upon it with his gauntleted fist. "Merlin? Keep up the good work and you'll get us all killed. If you don't open this door right away, they're going to have about fifty men with crossbows in here in less than five minutes and shoot me and Dinadin dead. And a battering ram for the door."

There came a sort of annoyed chuckle from inside. "Battering rams do not trump magical doors, Kay. Tell the other boy that his brother will be human and quite the wiser in an hour if only he will not interfere. They haven't got magic here—not my kind, anyhow. It's the chance of a lifetime for him!"

Kay gave Edmund a questioning look, and, still glowering, Edmund shook his head.

"He won't have it, Merlin. Now open the cursed thing up!"

There was a long, mournful sigh from inside, and the old man said, "Fifty men, you said? With crossbows? Arthur would never forgive me."

The door clicked, and Edmund flung himself against it. At last it swung open easily, and without a glance at the wizard (even though he actually was the threat), Edmund looked around for his brother.

A little yellow bird hopped up and down on the desk, whistling shrilly. Edmund sheathed his sword and walked across, kneeling so that he was at eyelevel with the bird. Sure enough, it had blue eyes and that worried expression (worried for a bird, anyhow) that was so characteristic of Peter.

"Great Scott," Edmund said, putting out a shaking finger toward the little bird. "Is that you, Peter?"

The bird bit his finger. Yes. It was most definitely Peter.

"_Serinus canaria domestica_," Merlin said, sounding very academic as he poured himself a cup of tea (where had that tea kettle come from, Edmund wondered, and all those books?). "Canaries are renowned for their bright yellow color (we did want color, didn't we, King Peter?) and their lovely aptitude for song."

"Listen," Edmund shook his stinging finger, sending Peter a look, and turned to glare at Merlin. "You may be a wizard from the legendary days of England, but you are now in Narnia. The laws of this world and court are far different from the ones you may be accustomed to. That being said: Turn. Him. Back."

"Aha ha ha," Merlin laughed, the twinkle back in his eye, "The other young king. You know, Kay, you were always a little jealous of Arthur's lessons. Perhaps young Edmund would like to be turned into…a Merlin, or some other beast of wing?"

"No thanks," Edmund said, narrowing his eyes. "Will you change him back? I'm sure the noble Canaries of Narnia would not mind having the High King number among the ranks of their race, but I don't particularly care to have a bird-brain for a brother—nor will my noble sisters, I think."

"Ah." Merlin raised his bushy eyebrows. "I could make you all canaries."

"Not the point, Merlin," Kay put in.

"This seems to be a great misunderstanding," the wizard said, sipping his tea thoughtfully. "You see, I mean to change him back eventually. The entire purpose of his transformation was to teach him whatever lessons might be gained by living for a while within the body of a bird. He's not harmed. He can speak, if he'll only calm himself and think."

This was said with a pointed look at the Canary. It stopped its incessant tweeting and appeared to take a deep breath. "Ed. Ed. Jove, I can talk! Ed, I'm alright. Don't hurt him or I might be stuck like this—" and then he appeared to comprehend what he had just said, sank into a little yellow ball of fluff on the desk, and proceeded to look like the most depressed Canary anyone had ever seen.

"Stand down," Edmund said to the guards. Then, to Merlin (and Kay), "Forgive me for assuming the worst. I see now that you don't mean us any harm. But much as we appreciate your kind offer of instructing us in this somewhat other than orthodox method, we prefer to trust in our advisors, experiences, and Aslan for our knowledge."

Merlin shook his head. "You too! You boys are some of the most unimaginative and boring youths…what kind of people are there in this county, anyway? Wart never…ah, but you've been kings already. You've had a chance to learn where he did not." He eyed the two boys (or rather, the one boy and one Canary) a little differently, with a bit more respect. "This is all most interesting. I shall have to tell Arthur about this. It is refreshing to see two youths such as he becoming kings even younger than he was when he was crowned and still turn out alright. Gives me hope. In fact, I've learned a few things I may take back in time to teach him (I live backwards, you know)."

He stood, tapped his wand on the table (everybody stared as the books and teapot lined up and floated back inside his bag), and turned to look at Kay. "Well then. We're done here. Where have Lancelot and Gawain got to? Off charming all the ladies of the place I shouldn't wonder."

He looked as though he was about to leave. Edmund cleared his throat. "Sir. Will you change my brother back?"

"Oh, that." Merlin scratched his head and muttered, "Now what was that spell?" He scratched his head and tugged at his beard, but at last shrugged. "Forgot it. It happens all the time. Don't worry, though. As a precautionary measure, I've made it to wear off in an hour. Just keep him away from falcons and cats."

The depressed Canary let out a harrumph, and Edmund, for the first time in the strange situation, had to fight back a grin.

**0o0o0o0o0o**

The wizard swept out on the same path as he had come, Kay and Edmund and Dinadin and about a dozen guards trailing in their wakes. Corin had found Susan and Lucy as well as calling Peridan to aid (Peridan was left to guard the Canary-Peter, who refused to go out and farewell the wizard and knights), so they came with Gawain and Lancelot in their company to where the horses had been brought back out.

"I should have liked to have stayed," Gawain said to Lucy, grinning and accepting the somewhat wilted flower she offered him, "but Merlin seems rather in a rush to move on. Arthur needs him constantly, anyhow. Don't know what we'd do without him, back in Camelot."

"Just as well," Lucy said. And then, with a giggle, "Once you leave, I'm going to try to teach Peter to fly."

She had not been very much alarmed to hear that her brother was a bird. Lucy, unlike the others, had a far greater trust in Aslan to protect her family and see that all was well, and if it was Aslan's will that Peter remain a bird for the rest of his days, then Lucy would simply have to accept it. She was glad, however, that in this case he would not (remain a bird forever), which meant that she had to take every opportunity to…enjoy the situation.

Susan still struggled with whether or not to say something about Guinevere to Lancelot, but at last she decided to let it be. She was also rather worried about Peter (feeling that she should actually leave the company and rush to him to make sure he was alright, but feeling a certain duty as hostess to her guests as well), and that made her absentminded. She almost blushed when Lancelot swept her a bow and kissed her hand, because even though she'd gotten used to the courtesy paid her by knights of the land, this was Lancelot, and he definitely grew more handsome to look upon once one understood his character and personality a little better.

"My lady," he said, holding her gaze a second longer than perhaps was proper. "Would it be forward of me to ask for a favor from your most gracious hand? As it is likely I may never chance to come to your fair court again, it would be something to…remind me of your gracious hospitality and kindness to me and my fellows."

She smiled at him, and gave him one of her embroidered handkerchiefs (one of the dainty silk ones she kept about her simply so that when men asked for her favor, she didn't have to give them one of her actual handkerchiefs, which were really made of cotton and were much more useful than the silk kind people expected a queen to carry). It was a very knightly and romantic gesture, and she supposed that it was alright, although a bit strange to think that sometime in history, Lancelot had ridden about with her handkerchief. A professor she had once known would have had something to say about that.

Edmund (who still looked suspiciously at Merlin) shook hands with Kay and apologized again and thanked him. It was a very gruff farewell.

Corin gave Dinadin two apple tarts (he had asked for them, this time, and Cook recognized the significance of the deed and gave them to him). They exchanged a grin, and Corin realized that he had an awful lot of older brothers for an only child (and Dinadin started appreciating his idiot brother a little better afterwards).

About Peter the Canary, there is little more to be said, except that he remained such until the riders from Camelot were far out of sight of the castle Cair Paravel, and well out of reach of his sword (though it was generally agreed thereafter that he had learned, and therefore everyone at the Cair had learned, the significance of meddling in the affairs of wizards).

When Peter did change back, he was very cross for the rest of the day, and refused to eat any sort of poultry for the next week. However, he soon became his usual cheerful (for the most part) self, and was thereafter noticed to have a remarkably good singing voice for a boy his age.

_Fin_

* * *

><p>*In French, one creates an adverb by adding "ment" (exceptions do exist) on the end of an adjective or such. The author of this story suggests that it should be possible to do thusly in English, except, of course, with 'ly'. Hence the somewhat improper but more easily read beginning sentence of this chapter.<p>

**See above note.

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who stuck with me through the long period of no-updates. :) Forsooth, thine loyalty and encouragement hath given this story an ending at long last. It's funny, because when I first had the idea, it seemed silly, but I liked it. And then it turned out there were other people like me out there, who thought it was silly but they liked it too.**

**So, thank you, fellow Arthurian legends know-it-alls, Narnians, and those who are a little of both. For letting me know I'm not the only one who thinks Merlin turning Peter into a canary is good entertainment...:D  
><strong>


End file.
